


Twist the Knife

by ruminables



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Gentleness Is Kinky, M/M, Mirror Universe, Overuse of War Metaphors, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-06-10 17:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15296481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruminables/pseuds/ruminables
Summary: “Captain,” Spock says, as elegant on his knees as he was standing up. “You are a man for whom action speaks louder than word. I endeavor to prove my loyalty, now and always, in language you will understand.”In which Spock tries something new, and Kirk experiences some feelings.





	Twist the Knife

After the challenge, the captain, victorious, returns to his quarters. He has allowed his loyal CMO to repair his deeper bruises, but left three surface wounds, shallow scrapes made by fingernails on his forearms, to heal naturally. The scars will remain as a trophy, evidence of his nearly unassailable position as captain of the Enterprise. Leaving the challenger, barely more than a boy, with a broken neck in the middle of the floor of the combat ring in the rec center, does not weigh on the captain’s conscience; in fact it seems to bolster him, and he walks with a spring in his step back to his rooms.

If Captain Kirk had ever been a boy himself once, he keeps it well hidden. There is little innocence to be found in the hard lines of his mouth, the compact definition of his shoulders. His face is well known throughout the Empire, often photographed in a gladiatorial grin in the midst of battle, his eyes glittering with triumph or mania. With images like that heading every article about the Enterprise and her captain, even the most critical journalist cannot deny his strength. And behind him, in nearly every single one of those photos, is Spock, still and cool as a shadow.

Spock, who had watched the combat with his usual impassive expression, not seeming to care who won or lost. Spock, who, when Kirk stood victorious and the rest of his crew cheered, had merely nodded once, and slipped away to attend to his duties. The nod was the giveaway. Not that anyone but Kirk would have known it for what it was, even if they had been watching. Approval. Maybe even relief. Most importantly, loyalty.

Alone in his room, Captain Kirk takes a rare moment of pause. Then he removes his shoes and sets them aside. His quarters are the only place in the world locked down tightly enough for him to move around barefoot, to show his soreness after the fight. Next he undoes his shirt and eases it off, moving slowly with his stiff arms. He takes his time undressing, removing everything, piece by piece, and setting it aside.

Clothed in a robe cinched at his waist, he crosses to the replicator and produces a cup of tea. Then he sits at the table and waits.

He does not move. The tea grows cold. He barely seems to breathe. Slowly, naturally, mirroring the patterns of sunset, the lights of the Enterprise dim to a low glow. After a time, with a word, he orders the lights off inside his quarters, leaving only the light from the hallway outside to shine through the horizontal window slits positioned high on the wall. A rectangle of light paints one side of his face muted gold and strange.

At last, the door within his quarters slides open with a hiss. A knife materializes in Kirk’s hand, and he turns.

Spock stands in the doorway. He is framed by darkness; he is half darkness himself. Off duty, he has removed his blue uniform shirt and is in only his black undershirt, and his arms hang at his sides rather than the customary parade rest he favors. Even so, he paints as stern a picture here as on the bridge at Kirk’s back. “Well, well,” says Kirk, unmoving. “Come in.”

“Captain,” says Spock, inclining his head with usual precision. Not a hint of waste, that Spock. Not a stray motion or a thoughtless word. “Congratulations on your victory.”

Kirk has not set down the knife. “Is that why you’re here at this hour? To offer congratulations?”

“No, Captain.”

Spock stops just short of where Kirk sits. The knife is between them, Kirk’s fingers curled loosely around it, deceptively relaxed. There is power in the set of the Captain’s shoulders just waiting to be unleashed; Kirk could strike to kill in an instant. But for all the times he has seen Kirk do just so, Spock does not appear remotely afraid.

Kirk’s eyes stay fixed on Spock’s face a moment longer, and then, not so subtly, they shift, travel down his frame, tall and elegant, and it _is_ pleasant just to watch him, even when he’s standing still – to admire his strange face, his fine hands, his remarkably trim waist. “You’re looking well tonight, Mr. Spock,” Kirk says huskily. “I do hope you’re not here to kill me. I’d much prefer to take advantage of your … other services.”

Never let it be said the Captain does not know how to twist the knife. In the well-timed pause before the last words,he allows his knees tofall open. The hem on one side of the robe has risen up, and a hint of skin on the inside of his thigh is revealed. Spock’s eyes are on him, steady and unreadable. Kirk waits just a moment longer, letting the tension stretch, and then tosses the knife aside.

He gets to his feet, stands up into Spock’s space. There’s a breath between them, until Spock closes the gap and kisses him, and Kirk is surprised to find Spock’s breath alreadyfaster than usual. Kirk bites down on his first officer’s bottom lip, gripping onto his upper arms and crushing them together. Spock usually responds to Kirk’s typical thrusters-on-full approach with cool expertise; tonight is no exception as hefields Kirk’s very best attempts to subdue him through the sheer force of his kiss alone, and works his captain’s mouth open, deft lips and tongue soothing the bite of the kiss and sending an unexpected flash of heat through the captain’s body.

“Fired up tonight, are we, Mr. Spock?” Kirk says, pulling away with a gasp.

“Perhaps,” says Spock in what comes out as half a whisper. Kirk goes to bite Spock’s lip again, but instead Spock catches him in a soft kiss.

Shockingly soft, bordering on tender. In the quiet of the room, the dimness of the evening light, no sounds but their breathing, Kirk goes tense in Spock’s arms. He thinks at first he must be mistaken, but then Spock’s hands come up to cup both sides of Kirk’s face, and his thumb moves so slightly along the line of Kirk’s brow bone. It is perhapsan absentminded gesture – but Spock is not often absentminded. No, he is truly being … gentle.

It’s strange, it’s not like him, and Kirk’s heart gives a pump of adrenaline.Something about the deceptive softness to the kiss reminds him of something; Kirk had once known of a particularly ruthless admiral with a reputation for the way she smiled at people before slitting their throats. It was a smile turned on Kirk once – but his throat was not the one slit, that day.

Kirk’s hand comes up between them and closes around Spock’s neck. “Careful, Spock,” he says, and then kisses Spock in a mockery of the same softness, kisses his mouth and then his jaw even softer and then, softest of all, his neck, at the same time stroking Spock’s throat with his thumb. He touches his teeth to the delicate skin. Spock swallows, which Kirk feels intimately.

“Apologies, Captain,” says Spock, but when Kirk lifts his head for another threat or another kiss, Spock kisses him again that same way, warm and delicious and so very dangerous, and it’s _good_ , amazingly good, and Kirk’s knees threaten go to weak. Kirk pulls away, hand tightening at Spock’s throat, half astonished at himself.

“My intention is not to hurt you,” Spock says, voice rasping. His hand cups Kirk’s face, the tips of his fingers just brushing Kirk’s hair in what could be a caress.

“You’re a daring man, Mr. Spock, but not a stupid one,” says Kirk. “What’s your game, eh? Will you lull me into a sense of security, then strike me down?”

“I will not hurt you,” Spock repeats, and instead of trying to kiss him again, he takes a step back. Kirk has half a breath which he thinks about wasting but doesn’t, before Spock sinks to his knees before him.

In all their time working together, and doing other things together as well, Kirk has never once seen Spock grovel. And that is indeed impressive, as nearly everyone in Kirk’s acquaintance has groveled to him at least once. The hairs on the back of Kirk’s neck prickle.

“Captain,” Spock says, as elegant on his knees as he was standing up. “You are a man for whom action speaks louder than word. I endeavor to prove my loyalty, now and always, in language you will understand.” His weight is on one knee, the other bent at a perfect right angle with one elbow resting on the knee. The incline of his head is just shy of a true grovel; not, then a strike on his record. Only Spock could manage such a level of precision in his posture. In spite of himself, Kirk is impressed. No, he is not begging anything, not looking for pity, or demonstrating submission. Instead, the position is more reminiscent of a medieval servant, perhaps a knight, pledging fealty to a lord. At the thought, a sense of power surges through him, of pleasure, certainty in his own ability to command such a powerful player.

Kirk steps forward and winds one hand through Spock’s hair, delighting in the way Spock does not move as he disturbs the fine, smooth texture. He massages Spock’s scalp, then curls his fingers and holds onto a fistful, lifting Spock’s head. Spock meets his eyes squarely, looking up through remarkably long lashes, that spark of intelligence and clarity that had drawn Kirk to his first officer in the first place bright as ever. “If this is some ploy,” Kirk says, cupping his other hand under Spock’s chin, “just remember, I know how you play chess.” He rubs his thumb along the line of Spock’s jaw, then crooks it so the edge of his nail traces a light line right along the edge of bone, up and down. “I know you play the long game.”

“Not this time, Captain,” says Spock. “I seek …” He trails off, and his eyelids actually flutter. When he speaks again, his voice is decidedly huskier. “I find it … most gratifying, to give you pleasure. I seek only this.” He turns his face to the palm of Kirk’s hand, pressing his lips there, and a shock of satisfaction runs down Kirk’s spine.

“You like that I let you put your hands on me, Mr. Spock,” Kirk whispers, allowing Spock to mouth at his wrist, shifting his other hand to cup the back of Spock’s neck, fingernails brushing the short hairs at the nape. “You are an excellent first officer indeed. Others have ambition, but you do not wish to rise above me.” Kirk presses the tip of his index finger to Spock’s lips and Spock parts them, allowing the Captain to slip his fingers into his mouth. “You enjoy being beneath me, don’t you, Spock?”

Spock slides his mouth expertly over Kirk’s fingers, tonguing between them, then pulls back enough to whisper, “No other. No other would I serve as I do you.”

Kirk chuckles, allowing himself to relax, and makes Spock take his fingers again, scraping the nails of his other hand up the back of Spock’s neck. “No you would not,” he says. “I am exactly what you need me to be. You are no fool, Spock, you ally yourself with only the best, and I am the best … but it goes both ways, doesn’t it? You would serve no other, and you would have no other serve me. You have ambition, and you know I’m your best bet at … what? Conquest? Survival? No matter, Spock,I know what you want well enough. You will not stray from my side.” With a stroke of cruelty, he presses his fingers deeper into Spock’s mouth, so Spock must either struggle against him or choke. When he feels Spock’s head attempt to move backwards, he holds Spock’s neck tightly, keeping his head in place.

But Spock inhales, his nostrils flaring – and then he relaxes his throat, controlling himself with Vulcan precision, holding perfectly still. He does not choke.

A grin tugs at Kirk’s face. “Good, Spock,” he whispers. “You can take me so well.” A drawn-out pause, in which Kirk examines Spock’s face for a sign of struggle. It is mostly tranquil, but faint wetness gathers at the corners of his eyes. Grin broader now, Kirk at last withdraws his fingers, and wipes the hint of tears away with his thumb before releasing the back of Spock’s neck.

“Such a show of loyalty,” he says, “deserves to be rewarded. Stand,” he commands, and Spock inhales, exhales, and rises to his feet in one fluid motion.

Kirk’s hands go to the ties of his robe. He undoes them. He is naked beneath. Spock’s eyes go to the narrow V of Kirk’s chest visible where the robe begins to part. He reaches out, pausing halfway to allow Kirk to stop him. But Kirk just leers and tips his head, a clear invitation. Spock steps in close and pulls open the robe, slipping the thick fabric off of Kirk’s shoulders and dropping it to the floor. He slides his palms down Kirk’s sides to his waist and captures his mouth in a blazing kiss.

Kirk moans unashamedly and winds his arms around Spock, who is still in uniform down to his boots. He allows Spock to guide his waist so their hips press together. The cool leather of Spock’s belt presses just above his hips, and a shiver of pleasure wracks Kirk’s body.

This is the secret that lives only between the two of them: Kirk likes it like this, Spock strong and sinuous and in control, Kirk on his back or on his stomach or bent over a desk or a console or even once against a wall, legs spread, limbs bruised by Spock’s fingers. Strange hungers, some would say, particularly for a captain of Kirk’s renown, and indeed if it was known what exactly Kirk craved from his first officer, he would be challenged. It was traditional for the superior to dominate the subordinate, widely accepted that it was correct to crave dominance, and to have submission taken from one only by force. Correct for submission to mean failure and defeat.

This was not strictly true of Kirk and Spock; it was understood that Kirk’s submission was anything but failure, that he retained the power to overcome his first officer if he so wished. It was further understood that Kirk would not submit without putting on a show of struggle. The first time, they had both bled, Spock from Kirk’s knife, Kirk from a myriad of scrapes and abrasions, their struggle violent and intense as the arrangement required negotiation, required Spock to understand what Kirk wanted, that Kirk would allow Spock to overcome him for this and only for this, that he may be Captain but he would have Spock hold him down and fuck him into incoherence, and that he expected, after the act, the restoration of absolute obedience. Required Kirk to ascertain that Spock would fill this role, that though Spock did desire to have his captain he would also give him up again, would not show a hint of what happened in the Captain’s quarters to the outside world, would respect the Captain’s strength as much as ever.

Many times they have come together in this way, each time a small battle, trench warfare, savage and archaic, with no budge to the battlefront. Kirk kisses his first officer with relish, anticipating the moment of being overpowered. Perhaps Spock will hold him down by his throat again, just enough pressure to allow him to breathe but only just, so he’s dizzy and shaking all over by the time it’s through … or he’ll use Kirk’s own knife against him, keep him still with the threat of cool steel, barely touching him and keeping him strung out for hours … or he’ll simply overwhelm him through force alone, pin him and take him just right, the old classic hasn’t gotten tired yet. But Spock does none of these things. He holds the captain’s waist, strokes a palm up the curve of his back, cradles the back of his head and kisses him, and kisses him, all the while running his fingers through the fine hairs on the nape of Kirk’s neck.

Somewhere in Kirk’s brain that barely ever sees the light says, _It feels good to be touched like this._

Kirk becomes aware that his balance has shifted, that Spock is walking him to the bed, and pulls back with a gasp. “Such a _gentleman,_ ” he says with a mocking snarl, confused and belligerent because of it. “Next thing you’ll be asking permission.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow, and says with what Kirk is certain is sarcasm, “Will you allow me to take you to bed, Captain?”

“And what will you do if I say no?”

“I shall of course obey the command of my captain,” Spock says, his voice low, and suddenly his forehead is pressed to Kirk’s, his eyes intense but clear and without violent intent, and Kirk senses some unspoken emotion beneath Spock’s usually stoic expression; reassurance, perhaps, or simply certainty, a promise of absolute faith.

Something about Spock’s words, spoken with such confidence, strike him the wrong way, and Kirk feels an unexpected, ugly surge of rage. What is going on? This isn’t how it’s supposed to _work_. Spock is supposed to subdue him, control him, spare not a word to gain his consent. That part is important, it’s part of the illusion. This flimsy show of obedience, Kirk realizes, his anger rising, is two-faced as well – Spock is purporting to obey him, and yet by challenging this, by messing with their _system_ , he is digging in his heels.

Quick as a flash, Kirk seizes Spock’s wrists and yanks, tugging Spock off-balance a few steps forward. Spock is equally quick, frees himself so fast Kirk can’t figure out how he did it. He could retaliate – Kirk left himself open – but he does not, simply raises his hands to the defensive position.

“You _are_ playing the long game,” Kirk accuses. “You’re plotting something, I know it. Well, I’m not going to stand here and take it!” Spock just looks at him, level and calm, and Kirk knows he’s gone logical and decided that nothing he can say will change Kirk’s mind, and he’s right, and somehow this eases Kirk’s anger not a bit.

With a growl he lashes out, a narrow, heavy blow to the side of Spock’s head. Spock blocks easily. Anger turns to fury, which turns to exhilaration as Kirk realizes Spock will not hit back. Never one to pass up an advantage, Kirk presses it, taking sloppy risks and leaving himself wide open, lashing out with every cruel underhand trick in the book. He drives Spock back a few steps until Spock, likely growing weary, simply takes him by the wrists and locks him in, stepping in close to ruin his leverage. His hands are like steel. Kirk struggles, but knows, from experience, that he won’t be able to free himself.

“Do it,” he pants, flicking his head to move hair out of his eyes. “Pinch me, knock me out, have it your way, Spock.” This, Kirk understands. The clarity of the fight, inevitably falling into the hold of his first officer, waiting to be overpowered.

But Spock doesn’t knock him out or throw him down. Instead he just holds onto him, face as tranquil as it is on the bridge when he tells the Captain at the end of a shift _Nothing to report_. He does not let up even when Kirk redoubles his effort to free himself. “Well?” Kirk growls belligerently. “Do it!”

“What do you want me to do, Captain?” says Spock.

“You know, Spock,” Kirk hisses. _“You know.”_

Spock just raises an eyebrow, and righteous fury floods Kirk. He struggles mightily and this time, manages to break free of Spock’s hold. They exchange close blows – or Kirk does, Spock just blocks – and then Kirk grabs Spock by the neck. “Don’t poke the bear, Spock,” he says, out of breath. He realizes he’s grinning, his manic fighting grin. “Your position here is unconventional as it is. It ends any time I say so. Come on, Spock. Fight to keep it.”

“Is that what you would have me do?” says Spock, in a barely labored voice, like getting choked isn’t bothering him at all.

“Damn you, Spock! If you ask me that again I’ll throw you in the brig.” Abruptly Kirk realizes the source of his anger. It’s hurt, an ache like a bruise, at Spock’s apparent rejection. His refusal to act, to play out the system they’ve devised, stings with the sudden suspicion that perhaps Spock’s reluctance comes from personal preference.

He digs his thumbs harder into Spock’s neck, until Spock swiftly and without apparent effort frees himself, and catches Kirk’s next blow on the side of his forearm. “So you would like for me to do as _I_ please?” says Spock.

“Your position does not require these acts of you, Commander,” Kirk barks. “If you wish to stop, you need only say so and depart.”

“I did not say that.”

And suddenly Spock is kissing him, so swift Kirk isn’t sure how it happened, or why he’s allowing it, but oh it soothes the ache of the sting, touches the weak thing inside him that had stung so in the moments he’d suspected Spock no longer wanted him.

How had he let things with his first officer go so far? He is compromised, Kirk realizes in a rush. He hadn’t truly realized how much he craved their routine until Spock changed it. And how dare he, anyway, how dare he touch Kirk like this? It’s the shock more than anything that makes him let it happen, Kirk will tell himself later – his weakness about Spock can be chalked up to the combination of both an unusually good working relationship and an unusually good sexual one, and not wanting that to end is natural. There was no deeper reason for his feelings. For now he leans into the kiss, dizzy with revelation, and Spock – Spock _strokes_ the hair out of his face, the type of caress Kirk would never allow, but he _is_ – and strokes him in other places too, his neck and down his bare sides, all the way down, to rest a hand on the side of his thigh.

Time passes as they stand there, wound together, Kirk frozen between fighting and allowing Spock to continue. After a measured time, Spock, carefully, maneuvers both of them over to the bed. _Yes_ , Kirk thinks, _I want more,_ and _No, not like this_. Now Spock is pushing him down, still so gentle, removing his own shirt, and now Spock is crawling over him skin-to-skin and nuzzling into his throat and kissing him searingly, fantastically, bare and elegant and broad-shouldered and warm, always so warm.

Something small and wistful flickers in Kirk’s chest, a part of himself he hasn’t even been aware exists. He feels unsteady, and then angry, and then aching all over, and then the anger catches hold again. It’s a different sort of anger, not the belligerent kind he uses on subordinates or the cold powerful kind he uses on enemies, but an anger he’s powerless to stop, that wells up inside his throat.

When Spock rises to kiss his mouth again, Kirk returns the kiss with unrestrained brutality. He grabs Spock by the back of his neck and pulls him in, simultaneously lifting up with his hips. A small moan escapes Spock and Kirk wraps his bare legs around Spock’s waist and tugs him close, close enough both of them inhale sharply. When Spock breaks the kiss with a gasp, Kirk puts his mouth on his neck with intent to bruise. He has never marked Spock before, at least not anywhere visible. It was professional courtesy to allow his first officer privacy in his personal life, to keep any evidence of what they did together off the bridge. But today the rules have changed. Kirk can’t explain himself even to himself, can only feel that helpless fury mixed with heat and something raw. He doesn’t realize that Spock’s hands on him have stilled until they move again and he feels Spock cup the back of his head, run fingers through his hair. It’s such an unfamiliar sensation that he lifts his head for a moment and just breathes, and in that moment Spock brushes his knuckles down the back of his neck, and he shivers with his whole body. There’s no way Spock didn’t feel it, and it sends a flash of – of panic, yes, panic, straight down his spine into his gut.

He gives up on making red marks on Spock’s neck and falls back on the bed, seizing Spock’s face between his hands and forcing their eyes to meet. “Why?” he croaks, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice. It’s not a rational thing, the panic. He does not think Spock is plotting something anymore. He isn’t sure how he knows, but he does. “Why, Spock?” _Why are you_ _changing everything_ _? Why are you touching me_ _like this_ _? What gave you the right?_

Spock seems to understand all the questions implicit and answers none of them, simply looks straight back into Kirk’s eyes. Kirk blinks first, and Spock kisses him, without bite but with surety, security, and Kirk feels his panic eased, which is strange because he knows better than to ever allow himself the luxury of reassurance, but here he is, and the next thing he feels his Spock’s hand on his thigh. He’s got a stranglehold with his legs on Spock’s waist, he realizes, which must be painful, and he allows Spock to unlock his legs, allows himself to relax, and Spock’s hand slides up his thigh, and into him, then out, and without breaking the kiss Spock reaches somewhere out of sight, and when his hand returns it goes into Kirk smoothly.

It’s all somehow richer, more vivid, his senses filling with it. Before, he would only feel adrenaline, and satisfaction, and the shock of brutal pleasure. This is more subtle, sweeter, warming him through and making him heavy and light all at once. It’s strange and painful and very, very good, and he hasn’t cried in years, not since he was a child, and he isn’t crying now but he suddenly thinks he can remember how.

“Oh,” he whispers, hardly knowing what he’s saying. “No, it’s too much.”

“You wish to stop?” Spock says, fingers warm and intense inside him.

“Yes, enough, enough,” Kirk says, turning his head to the side. Spock withdraws, and he moans, surprising himself with the loudness of his own voice. “No, please,” and he grips Spock with his knees. “Please, don’t stop.”

“What do you want?” Spock whispers, and kisses him just below his ear, and it undoes something in Kirk.

He says, “Spock,” and he says, “Touch me,” and he says, “Yes, yes,” and he lets Spock kiss him soft, and he fists his hands loosely in Spock’s hair, letting the fine strands run through his fingers, and he tilts his head back and lets Spock kiss his neck, and forgets all about the fact that he has never said _please_ in his life before today.

When Spock begins to fuck him it’s strange at first, because they’ve never done it face to face, at least not without Kirk being restrained in some fashion, and they don’t find a rhythm right away. But then they do, and Kirk nearly does cry, and holds onto Spock for dear life. “What are you doing to me?” he gasps. At some point Spock had removed the rest of his clothes and is now naked over him, curled above him almost protectively, eyes half-lidded, breath coming faster. “What are you turning me into, Spock?” He thumps a fist against Spock’s chest, pulling him closer with his legs at the same time, and Spock nearly falls on top of him and has to catch himself.

“Do not worry, Captain,” he murmurs, his face so close, their foreheads nearly resting together. “I am yours, as always, wholly yours. Please allow me to do this for you.”

Maybe it’s because it was always so quick and violent between them before, but Kirk thinks he has never seen Spock lose it like this. His eyelids are fluttering, his voice has lost composure, and he’s beautiful, and it makes something inside Kirk sing to know Spock is just as lost to this as he is. The last bit of resistance gives way, and he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to Spock’s.

They don’t speak after that, simply breathe together, all focus on feeling. Feeling that builds and builds inside Kirk, overwhelming. Sounds escape his mouth, moans and sharp breaths and something suspiciously close to a sob. Spock is silent but for his breathing, but his usual control has slipped and his movements grow jerky, clumsy, and at last he says, “Captain, I am no longer able to –” and Kirk says _“Yes”_ and comes, eyes shut, going hot all over and then hotter still, aching deep in his chest and all throughout his body, and Spock presses his face into his neck and trembles through it.

When Kirk can breathe again, there is a tear on the side of his face.

Spock has his eyes open, watching him. When Kirk’s hand lifts to touch it, Spock bends down and kisses the corner of his eye.

It feels like his face belongs to a stranger.

Spock moves off him and lies down at his side. Kirk cannot move. He is too exhausted to panic, too spent to try and reclaim some modicum of strength. When Spock strokes his cheek, he closes his eyes and tilts his head into it.

Something has changed, something has broken, and he feels like he’s lost something he’ll never get back. Or perhaps it is that he’s found something he had long thought lost.

He can’t feel angry yet, but it’s there, distant, as if behind a wall.

Spock’s hand rests warm in his hair. “Sleep now, Captain,” he says in his low, quiet voice. “It is all right. I am with you.”

So Kirk does. And when he closes his eyes, his face relaxes and smooths. He has never slept in the presence of another before. It is the only time in his life he looks so relaxed, and he has never had such a deep, peaceful sleep as this. It changes everything about the way he looks; he is nearly a stranger. Perhaps none would dare call him innocent, but it is possible to imagine, in that smooth, sleeping face, what he may have looked like as a boy. Possible to picture him young and carefree, unstained by blood and war.


End file.
